


House vs. God's Country

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Amish people, Angst and Humor, Honeymoon, M/M, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson take off for their Amish honeymoon. What could possibly go wrong? Sequel to <i><b>A Wonderful Institution</b></i> and <i><b>All You Have to Bring.</b></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/)**fandomaid** benefit for the Philippines.

 

“So. Did you really have to bring up your parking ticket from 2009?” Wilson asked as he pulled out of the courthouse parking lot.

House freed himself from his stupid red tie and tossed it in the backseat. “We were in front of a judge. How could I pass up a chance to rail against The Man?”

“Well,” Wilson said, with that particularly irritating inflection he saved for the word _well._ “I’d say your timing left something to be desired. Since most people say ‘I do’ at that point in the ceremony.”

“That ticket was so bogus,” House barreled on, reclining his seat slightly for maximum bitch-session comfort. “People with canes should be able to park anywhere they please.”

“On the sidewalk?”

“It was the closest available space. Princeton was at fault for its lack of accommodations for cripples.”

“Which is what _I_ calmly pointed out to the cops,” Wilson cut in, with a sassy head tilt. “Ergo, the run-of-the-mill parking ticket instead of the hefty fine. But you just couldn’t be satisfied with that, could you?”

“It does take a lot to satisfy me,” House agreed, then leered. “As you’ll find out tonight.”

“Hmm.” Wilson’s attention shifted toward the Friday-afternoon traffic heading out of center city. Which simply wouldn’t do.

“First,” House said, dropping his voice an octave, “I’m gonna slowly remove that ridiculous pocket square and shove it in your mouth.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then I’ll slip off your silver, sparkly tie.”

Wilson glanced down and frowned. “It’s not sparkly.”

House detected the barest hint of uncertainty, and it made him smile. “It is totally sparkly. In the gayest of ways.”

Wilson huffed. “It is not sparkly. It’s…completely masculine.”

“Yeah. It’s from the Clint Eastwood tie collection.”

Wilson’s jaw clenched. “It just has a nice sheen.”

“You look like you have a tie-shaped disco ball around your neck.”

“Oh-kay,” Wilson sing-songed. “Enough about my disco tie.”

“But I haven’t told you what I’m gonna do with it, Donna.”

“I can wait. We’ll be there in an hour-and-a-half.” Wilson flashed him a phony smile. “Why don’t you take a nap until then?”

House bobbed his head side-to-side. “Maybe,” he said off-handedly. “I _will_ be up all night with the dancing queen, so—”

He stopped short, suddenly remembering a vital detail he’d forgotten in all the parking ticket/wedding excitement.

“Wait. Why are you driving?” he demanded. “I’m supposed to be driving.”

Wilson briefly lifted his hand from the two-o’clock position on the wheel. “It’s better this way. I know how to get there, and I acknowledge the existence of traffic laws. We have a much better chance of actually arriving.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” House informed him. “We’re gonna actually arrive in Amish country.”

Wilson rolled his eyes.

“Where exactly are we staying?”

Wilson sighed. “I told you—Don’t you ever listen?”

House made a _duh_ face, and Wilson held up a hand in acknowledgement of his error.

“It’s a bed-and-breakfast in a town right in the middle of the action…so to speak.”

House gazed at Wilson’s profile, noting the tension returning to his jaw.

 _Huh._ “And what’s the name of this town?” he inquired.

Hesitation. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I’m curious.”

Wilson bit his lip and appeared to be on the verge of stalling. But then he shook his head slightly and blew out a breath. “Intercourse.”

“Absolutely. Pull over.”

“No, no. That’s the name.”

“Intercourse?”

“Yes.”

“You slut. Pull over.”

“ _House._ The name of the town is Intercourse.”

House grinned. What a gift. “See, now why would you keep this information from me? Why didn’t you just say, ‘House, can we spend the weekend in Intercourse?’ What do you think my response would’ve been?”

“I can only imagine the wit you’d display.”

House leaned back in his seat. “I’m way too excited for a nap now. We’re going to Intercourse to have intercourse.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And by the way, I had no idea the Amish were so kinky. We may need to get a summer home in this town.”

“Yes. We’ll meet with a realtor.”

“In between all the intercourse?”

“That’s right.” Wilson dutifully hit his blinker as they glided into the lane for Route 206.

House smirked. “I may owe you an apology, Mrs. House. You’re better at this honeymoon thing than I thought. Of course, few people have as much experience as you. You’re like the Liz Taylor of medicine.”

Wilson nodded. “Apology accepted.”

House felt a genuine smile threatening, so he looked out the passenger window and feigned a sudden interest in the strip malls flying by. A moment later, though, something made him glance down at his left hand, and the gold band on his ring finger.

It wasn’t new; he’d had it since the civil-union ceremony. And, much to Wilson’s delight, he’d even remembered to wear it when he wasn’t at the hospital. But somehow, House realized, the band felt heavier now. Not necessarily in a bad way. It was just different.

He looked out the window again. _I’m going to Amish country with my husband._ The absurdity of that statement, even in his head, was striking. And he honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

But he wasn’t ready to jump out of the car, which had to be a positive sign.

He angled his head toward Wilson. “You realize you’re buying me an ‘I heart Intercourse’ t-shirt, right?”

Wilson smiled, just a little. “Of course.”

“Good.” House settled back and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see where they were going.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Gentlemen, may I help you?” The plump brunette at reception gave them a syrupy smile.

Wilson responded with the gentle smile he used for female service-industry workers. “We’re checking in. James Wilson.”

House leaned forward. “We booked your anal-intercourse package.”

The receptionist’s eyes widened, and Wilson quickly jostled House aside. “Um, I reserved a suite.” His smile transmuted into the apologetic variant he frequently used when House was in the vicinity. 

The woman consulted her computer screen and her face lit up. “Oh! Mr. Wilson. You’re on your honeymoon.”

She looked up, and the glee momentarily shifted to puzzlement as her eyes fell on House again. He tried not to grin too broadly at her awkwardness. “Oh,” she repeated, plastering the smile back on.

“Yes,” House affirmed. “We’re both men. Especially me.”

“OK,” Wilson said, forcing a little chuckle. “We’ve established everyone’s gender.” He looked at House and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly; a casual observer would never detect the _cease-and-desist_ warning. “Let’s just check in.” 

“Of course,” Reception Lady piped up, then began tapping her keyboard. “You’re in the Thomas Suite, which is right here in the main house.”

“Is there indoor plumbing?” House inquired.

The wide-eyed look returned, followed by a tentative little laugh. “Uh, yes, sir. Your suite has it all. A Jacuzzi, wi-fi, flat-screen TV…”

“Sweet,” House approved, briefly forgetting he was trying to be an enormous asshole.

He turned to Wilson to get back on track. “We’ll barely have time for sex. Well, actually I guess there’s plenty you can do for me while I’m enjoying the Jacuzzi and the flat-screen.”

Wilson broke out his just-for-House smile. “Yes. This weekend is all about you, after all.”

Reception Lady cleared her throat. “Mr. Wilson? Here’s your key card.”

Wilson’s cheeks flushed in the most delightful way. “Oh, thank you. I’m sorry about…” He gestured vaguely between himself and House.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” she replied smoothly. “Please let us know if we can do anything to make your stay more comfortable.”

House leaned in again. “Do you supply complimentary lubricants?”

“OK.” Wilson grabbed his bicep. “Let’s go.”

As he was being dragged away, House gave the receptionist one last smirk. “Someone can’t wait to consummate this thing.”

*******

As they entered their suite, House was struck by how non-ridiculous it was. No heart-shaped décor to be found, nothing was pink or adorned with cupids, and the king-sized bed looked…enticing.

“A sleigh bed,” House cooed in mock excitement, to mask his actual pleasure. He made a beeline for the bed and flopped down, while Wilson wheeled their suitcase to the bureau to begin his organization routine.

House propped himself on his forearms. “Why don’t you come over to the sleigh and sit on Santa’s lap? I’ll tell you what I want.”

“So you’re like a perverted reverse-Santa.” There was no question in Wilson’s voice; it was just a clarification.

“That’s right,” House agreed, watching Wilson hang up his suit coat then set to rolling up his sleeves.

_Aww, yeah._

House patted a spot beside him on the bed. “C’mon. Your hair products won’t go bad if they sit in the suitcase. And I have no idea why you even packed clothes.”

“There are very few nudist farms in Amish country.”

House groaned. He’d hoped Wilson would forget his touristy ideas once they’d settled into their sexy-times suite. “You cannot possibly think I’m gonna spend the weekend watching Amish people milk cows and bake shoofly pie.”

Wilson stopped unpacking and put his hands on his hips. “Well, we have to see some of the sights. Why else would we be here?”

“The _name_ of the town is Intercourse.”

Wilson did his head-tilt thing. “We’ll have plenty of time for that, too.”

House fell back on the pillows. _Unbelievable._

“We have a Jacuzzi,” he bitched to the ceiling. “A huge bed with rafters above it. Why would you want to leave this room?”

“Uh, I think you’re overestimating our physical capabilities. Just a little.”

“We’re on our honeymoon. It’s our duty to explore as many positions and scenarios as possible. Even if you end up in the hospital.”

Wilson made a _hmm_ sound. “I’m glad you’re willing to sacrifice my health for…well, your penis.”

House lifted his head. “Is there a nobler cause?”

“I’m touched.”

“Not yet.”

Wilson sighed as he set a pile of neatly folded t-shirts in one of the drawers. “OK,” he said, turning around. “If we have a quickie now, will that tide you over till later?”

“Wow,” House deadpanned. “You sound like my mom when she’d offer crackers-and-cheese before Thanksgiving dinner.”

Wilson visibly shuddered. “Can you refrain from bringing up your mother while we’re here?”

“Can you refrain from acting like her?”

That won him a murderous glare. “Yeah, that is totally the way to get me hot.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” House sat up all the way. “I have to _get_ you hot now? I agreed to the wedding, I agreed to this honeymoon, and now I want the good part. Just strip and grab the lube.”

Wilson crossed his arms and deployed his _Oh no, you didn’t_ face. “Excuse me?”

House felt himself getting genuinely pissed off, though the exact reason was eluding him.

“What?” he challenged. “When I want something I say it. I don’t act coy and charming, and try to convince people _they_ want to do things for me.”

He held his left hand aloft and waggled his ring finger. Even as he was doing it, House vaguely wondered why he was choosing to flirt with disaster. But it was too late now.

Wilson just stared at him for a beat, and House readied for a lamp to come sailing his way. Wilson did like to throw shit.

But instead of flipping his lid, Wilson simply shook his head. “Well,” he said lowly. “I’m so sorry I manipulated you into marrying me.”

He turned back to the suitcase and fished out the toiletry bag House loved to mock. “I’m taking a shower,” he muttered before disappearing into the bathroom.

House found himself sitting alone, staring at the paisley bedspread and pondering what had just taken place. It was a bit fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he’d somehow told Wilson he didn’t want to be married to him.

Not good, he had to admit.

_The odds of me getting any tonight just dropped dramatically._

*******

House woke the next morning to the wails of a hair-dryer. Wilson had taken another shower, he realized grimly. Over the past two years, he’d found he could reliably gauge how much trouble he was in by how much time Wilson spent showering; excessive grooming was one of the ways he dealt with emotional issues.

The freak.

House slowly hauled his legs over the side of the bed and pushed to his feet, only to be greeted with a particularly hellish stabbing pain. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, falling back on the bed.

Road trips never did his leg any favors, but he normally remembered to down an extra pill and grab a soak before bed. Last night, however, he’d been too busy wondering how he could get Wilson to talk to him again—though he’d actually expressed that concern by watching a _1,000 Ways to Die_ marathon on Spike.

House retrieved his Vicodin from the nightstand and massaged his thigh for a few minutes before tentatively attempting to stand again. It sucked marginally less this time, so he lurched toward the dresser.

That was when Wilson emerged from the bathroom. House pretended to ignore him as he nabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the drawers, deliberately wrecking the perfect stacks Wilson had created.

He winced as he hobbled back to the bed to sit.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Are you faking just to get out of going anywhere today?”

House scowled at him. “Yeah. I stuck on one of those gag infarctions they sell at Ricki’s.”

He got some satisfaction from Wilson’s suitably contrite expression. But neither the feeling nor the expression lasted long.

“You should’ve soaked in the whirlpool last night,” Wilson scolded. 

“You should’ve not dragged me to the Land Time Forgot,” House retorted, as childishly as possible.

Wilson chewed on his lip before speaking again. “What is with you?” he asked, sounding honestly at a loss. “I thought you were OK with this.”

House hung his head. He’d thought so, too.

“I dunno,” he groused, rubbing his thigh. “We got married yesterday, and now we’re in Amish country. I don’t know.”

Wilson was silent, like he was waiting for more, but House had nothing else to offer. 

“I’ll go start the tub,” Wilson mumbled a moment later then turned on his heel. 

And once again, House was alone in bed.

*******

Things were looking up a bit by the end of breakfast. First of all, breakfast always cheered House up—particularly when it involved omelets, assorted pastries and pancakes with real maple syrup.

Secondly, breakfast at this joint was communal. Normally, House would rather stab himself repeatedly than have breakfast with an inn’s worth of idiots. In fact, he was pretty sure that over his lifetime he _had_ stabbed himself more times than he’d dined with strangers.

But in this instance, the presence of others was forcing Wilson out of mope mode, and by the time House’s short stack was constructed Wilson was chatting pleasantly with another couple about healthcare reform.

House did have to marvel at Wilson’s ability to engage in a politically charged back-and-forth and still have the other person end up liking him. That was not a part of House’s particular skill set.

He shoved a forkful of syrup-laden pancake into his mouth and immediately felt his eyes bug at the unexpected ecstasy.

“Jesus Christ,” he proclaimed, mouth still partly full.

Some of the other diners looked at him askance.

House finished chewing his food. “What?” he demanded. “Jesus would cry out his own name if he tried these pancakes.”

A few more looks were aimed his way.

“Most people associate Jesus with supper,” Wilson intervened, in his special light tone. “But my husband is a history buff, and it turns out, Jesus actually preferred a good breakfast buffet.”

A couple of the onlookers chuckled, and the threatened religion-and-breakfast-foods brouhaha appeared to be defused. But House could only dimly register that; he was stuck on the part where Wilson said _my husband._

It was the first time either of them had said it out loud, and he felt mildly weirded out at the sound of the phrase. That was illogical, he realized, and yet…

“You know, the Amish don’t take part in the health insurance system,” the guy next to Wilson said, apparently taking up their previous conversation. 

House was almost grateful for the opportunity to mock strangers instead of feeling what he was feeling. “That’s because they’re covered by the ‘God’s Will’ system,” he cut in. “It’s way cheaper. ’Cause you just die.”

“Well,” Wilson said mildly. “Many Amish these days do believe in modern medicine, even if they don’t have insurance. Others choose not to.”

House shifted in his seat. “But honey, you can’t _believe in_ medicine. When people believe in something, that means the thing has never been proven to exist. Like Santa, God and Miley Cyrus’s talent. Medicine is real.”

Wilson’s new friend maneuvered into House’s line of sight. “Um,” he laughed awkwardly. “I don’t mean to start something, but…It’s not really up to you to tell us what’s real.”

House held a hand next to his mouth and leaned toward Wilson. “I forgot how crazy these Miley fans can get.”

Wilson ignored him in favor of offering a reassuring smile to his neighbor. “Mike, I don’t think my husband is trying to tell you what’s real. He just has strong opinions and he states them…strongly.”

There was that damn phrase again. House reached around Wilson to extend a hand to Mike. “Hi. I’m _Doctor House._ It is my strong opinion that medicine exists, and God does not. If you’d like a second opinion, I have more.”

“House,” Wilson said under his breath.

“Um, it’s OK, James,” Mike said with a hesitant smile. “We should probably leave this particular subject alone.”

“And anyway,” his lady-friend spoke up, “we do have to get going.” She glanced at House then focused on Wilson. “We’re taking a tour of an Amish school, then we’re going antiquing.”

Wilson put a hand on House’s knee and squeezed—not in a honeymoon kind of way. “Oh, that sounds great,” he cooed. “The antique shops here are supposed to be something.” He gave House another warning squeeze as he sighed in a contented, bed-and-breakfast sort of way. “Well, it was really nice meeting you guys.”

“You, too,” Mike replied with exaggerated fondness. He gave House a curt nod before rising.

Once the Pleasantons were out of earshot, Wilson blew out a breath. “Wow. I nearly had a full conversation before you chased them away.”

“I was busy eating,” House explained.

“Right,” Wilson acknowledged. He pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, if you’re done singing hosanna to your pancakes, we have to get going, too.”

House narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Wilson smiled sweetly, but there was an evil glint in his eyes. “I booked us a private horse-and-buggy tour of Amish country.”

House stared, not quite believing his ears. It had become clear, of course, that Wilson wanted a proper honeymoon, with all the couple-y shit that entailed. But this was a bridge too far.

“You bastard,” House growled when he finally found his voice.

Wilson’s smile broadened. “Yep. C’mon. Abe will be waiting for us.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Amish Abe’s Horse-and-Buggy Tours?” House asked incredulously, squinting at the quaint sign erected in front of the horse stables.

Wilson nodded. “The ‘Amish’ seems unnecessary,” he conceded.

They were sitting in the car, having reached their destination after tense negotiations. At first, House had refused to leave the B-and-B; Wilson had countered by showing him the key card, car keys and two wallets in his possession. He’d then noted that House would need to eat at some point, and at a B-and-B, there was no “L” or “D.” 

More bickering had ensued, with House managing to maneuver it into the lobby. Eventually, their receptionist friend had suggested they go outside, where a “lovely gazebo” was available.

House had tried to convince Wilson to go for it. “Fighting in a gazebo would be totally romantic. Like in _The Sound of Music._ ”

“They weren’t fighting,” Wilson had objected, with a whiff of offense. “They were singing and dancing.” He’d reflexively made jazz hands in demonstration.

In the end, House had agreed to go peacefully, on the condition that he be allowed to wear his Black Sabbath t-shirt.

In truth, though, he was also giving in to simple curiosity; a part of him did want to see these Amish in action. He’d always been drawn to freaks—most notably the secret freak sitting next to him in a respectable green t-shirt free of Osbournes.

“The parking lot is gravel,” Wilson mumbled with a little frown. “You should get out here.”

House fluttered his lashes. “You’re so chivalrous when you’re not being a conniving bitch.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Just”—he made shoo-ing motions with his hands—“wait for me here. And try not to talk to anyone.”

House got out of the car, fully intending to not talk to anyone. But as soon as Wilson pulled away, a man came out of the shed-like building next to the stables. He looked about House’s age, but way more Amish—with a straw hat, suspenders, and long gray beard, sans mustache. 

“Good morning, sir,” he called. “How can I help you?”

House took a deep breath and uttered the surreal words, “We booked a buggy tour.”

“Are you my honeymooners who called this morning?” the man asked as he approached. He had an indefinable accent, sounding kind of like a German who’d lived in Minnesota most of his life.

House nodded. “You Abe?”

“Yes, sir.” He extended his hand, and House accepted it. Because why be rude?

“Where’s your wife?” Abe asked, flashing a grin that showcased a longstanding lack of dental care.

“Parking the car.” House hooked a thumb toward the lot. “She has excellent visuospatial skills. And also a penis.”

Abe blinked. “A what?”

“A penis,” House was happy to repeat. “My wife is a man. In the anatomical sense, anyway.”

Abe raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Sorry for making assumptions.”

_Interesting._ House had expected a much more entertaining response. “We’re a same-sex couple,” he clarified. “And we’re having a very gay honeymoon at the Intercourse Inn.”

“Congratulations, sir,” Abe replied, unfazed.

House was about to go into more-graphic detail, in case Amish Abe wasn’t grasping the situation, when Wilson’s voice cut in. “Good morning,” he breathed, sounding winded as he arrived at House’s side. He must’ve broken into a sprint when he’d seen what was happening.

House couldn’t resist a small smile.

More introductions followed, and Abe said his sons would be bringing the buggy around any moment now. “So we’ll get started in just a few minutes,” he assured. “We can settle up after we get back.”

“Seriously?” House questioned. “What if we run away before paying? We have one of those motor vehicles, you know.”

Abe chuckled. “I’ve been doing this for over ten years, and that’s never happened.”

“Well, you’ve never met us,” House pointed out. “We’re from New Jersey.”

Abe just kept grinning. “Oh, we get plenty of customers from New Jersey. New York City, too. Really nice folks.”

“Seriously?” House and Wilson said in unison.

Abe shook his head, still smiling. “If you don’t mind my saying, I suspect you two are a bit cynical.”

Wilson huffed a little laugh. “I…suspect you’re right. Though my husband really isn’t ‘a bit’ anything.”

House bristled at hearing that term again, and this time he couldn’t let it go. He shifted to fully face Wilson. “Will you stop calling me that?”

In an instant, Wilson’s smug expression faltered into kicked-puppy territory, and House felt his gut twist. He even had a fleeting thought of taking his words back. But then Wilson set his jaw and eyed him with determination.

“No,” he said, in that low growly way that would’ve gotten House hot if there weren’t an Amish guy standing there.

So he glowered instead. “What do you mean, _no?_ You’re pissing me off.”

“By calling you what you are?” Wilson pressed, with a saucy little hip sway. “I call you an ass every day, and you never get upset.”

House aimed an index finger at him. “You’re doing it on purpose. You know it makes me uncomfortable.”

Wilson raised his own index finger in challenge. “I’m not letting you do this, House. I did not manipulate you into marrying me. And I don’t care if you’re suddenly _uncomfortable_ with it. You’re my husband.”

House looked at Abe. “He told me he was pregnant.” He turned back to Wilson. “You’re still emo over what I said yesterday? I was just…” He waved a hand, hoping that was sufficient.

Wilson crossed his arms. “Yes?”

“I was mad, OK?” House defended. “I’d had a long day of doing things I hate, and I wanted to do something I like—you, to be specific. But you acted like I was bothering you.”

They both glanced at Abe, who had edged away and was now peering over his shoulder toward the stables.

House stepped into Wilson’s personal space and lowered his voice. “I did everything you wanted. The wedding. This stupid honeymoon. What more do you want?”

Wilson pressed his lips together and darted his eyes to the side. 

House leaned a little closer. “ _Yes?_ ”

Wilson met his gaze, but when he spoke his voice was weary. “I want you to actually want this.” His shoulders slumped a little. “And no, I don’t mean the buggy ride.”

House automatically opened his mouth, assuming some response would spill forth. He was surprised when nothing did.

_Huh._ Just like that, he realized he couldn’t give Wilson the answer he wanted, because he wasn’t sure if it was true. He’d spent the last week-and-a-half just going along with Wilson’s wishes after token bitching—telling himself it didn’t matter, because marriage was no different from a civil union.

Except that it was. It was an _Institution,_ and it came with social security checks and obligatory words like “husband.” He’d just barely gotten used to the civil union, and occasionally being forced to call Wilson his “partner” without gagging. 

He hadn’t let himself pause to really consider whether he wanted the extra weight of marriage.

Wilson looked at him expectantly, for what seemed like a painful eternity, but House couldn’t find any words. And one thing he’d never done to Wilson was offer him a comforting lie.

No one else would’ve noticed the minute changes that were passing over Wilson’s face, but House recognized the shift from uncertainty, and maybe a little hope, to resignation.

Wilson gave him a slight nod. “OK.”

House knew he had to say something, but he was stymied by the fact that it had to be an effective something.

And then it didn’t matter, because they were interrupted by the clip-clop of horse hooves and Abe’s cheerful voice. “Here comes the buggy, boys!”

Wilson sighed and dropped his chin. “I’m not gonna make you do this, House.” He shook his head. “I was pissed about last night, and I wanted to punish you. But…It’s gone far enough. There’s no reason to punish Abe and the entire Amish population of Lancaster County.”

Oddly, House felt no relief at getting off the hook. He dipped his head to get a better view of Wilson’s eyes. “And by _this_ you mean the buggy ride, right?”

Wilson smiled wanly and House waited, trying to ignore the palpable increase in his heart rate. “Let’s,” Wilson said hesitantly, “let’s just go back.”

He turned abruptly and was at Abe’s side before House could say another word.

“Abe?” Wilson began, all apologetic tone and sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is gonna work out today.”

House gripped his cane against a rising sense of alarm, then blurted the first words that came to mind. “Whadaya mean?”

Wilson and Abe turned around, and House jutted his chin toward the carriage. “I signed up for a buggy tour.”

Even as he spoke, his brain was screaming that this was exactly what he wanted: a life untouched by a carriage ride through God’s Country. But he decided to ignore the shouts for now. Because if there was another thing he’d never done, it was let Wilson get away.

Wilson gaped at him, looking somewhat intrigued but mostly scared. Dimly, House realized they were now officially negotiating their future via Amish buggy. But it didn’t seem curious enough to dwell on.

“Let’s go, Abe,” House ordered with a twirl of his cane. “I can’t wait to churn some butter.”

*******

“After we get past this intersection down here, we’ll go by an Amish school,” Abe said over his shoulder. They were picking up speed as they headed downhill on a surprisingly busy two-lane road.

“Great,” Wilson replied, voice strained.

House noticed him tighten his hold on the buggy seat. “So, Abe,” he said casually. “How often do Amish horses just go nuts and flip the buggy?”

In his periphery, he saw Wilson look at him sharply but pretended not to notice.

“Never seen it happen,” Abe said. “There have been some unfortunate accidents, though. Some of these folks in their cars can get impatient when they’re stuck behind us.”

“Fantastic,” Wilson grumbled.

“You wanted an old-school buggy ride,” House reminded.

Wilson leaned into him. “No, I didn’t,” he whispered harshly. “I told you why I did it.”

“To punish me,” House replied, distinctly louder than a whisper. “Funny how you end up punishing yourself.”

Wilson closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, well, I clearly have masochism issues.”

“Here’s the school coming up on our right,” Abe announced.

House looked out his little window to see a white clapboard building with a small fenced-in yard. “Wow,” he remarked. “That’s really something, Abe.”

“It’s a one-room schoolhouse,” Abe went on, as if sarcasm had no power over him. “Amish children go to school until they’re about 13, and there’s usually one teacher for all of the grades.”

“Hmm,” was Wilson’s judicious response.

“Well,” House said, “there’s not much to learn beyond the age of 13 anyway.” He clasped his hands on his lap. “What do they study in school, Abe?” 

“The three R’s, some history. Bible study is a big part of it, of course.”

“Of course,” House agreed. “Tell me, Abe, what is it that children get from studying the Bible?”

“Here we go,” Wilson murmured.

“Well…I think they learn what’s important in life.”

“Which is?”

Abe kept his eyes on the road. “Faith in God’s plan. It’s a great comfort to trust that you’re taken care of.”

House smirked. “A comforting lie,” he pronounced, just loud enough for Wilson to hear. Then he leaned forward to speak to Abe. “ _Gottes Wille?_ ”

The buggy began to slow as they approached a red light, and Abe glanced back, looking mildly surprised. “That’s what we say about the special children.”

“The ones with the rare genetic disorders?” House prodded. He looked at Wilson. “Rare except if you’re Amish, that is. Inbreeding has its downsides.”

“My granddaughter is special,” Abe volunteered. “She has what the doctors call Cohen syndrome.”

House felt a little pang of guilt, though he wasn’t exactly sorry he’d spoken. “I’m, uh, sorry to hear that,” he told Abe, because that much was true.

Abe made a clicking sound as he shook the reins and they started up again. “No, sir. I’m not sorry. She’s a wonderful little girl. And she’s happy.”

“Then that’s what matters,” Wilson intoned.

House rolled his eyes. “She’s not _happy,_ ” he snapped, then winced slightly. “Not to bring you down, Abe, but being shiny, happy and friendly is a symptom of Cohen syndrome.”

Wilson sighed. “Of course it is. A little girl with a disease can’t possibly be happy.”

“Correct,” House bit back. “Thank you.”

Wilson shook his head. “Any time you catch of glimpse of happiness, you’ve got to explain it away, or just try to crush it.”

“Oh, good, I’ve been waiting for this,” House snarked.

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but Abe beat him. “You know, I don’t know what makes Miriam so happy.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I just know every time I go to my son’s house, she comes hobbling outside as fast as she can, big smile on her face. And she hugs me like she’s never gonna let go. I guess I don’t care what’s causing it.”

House stared at Abe’s straw hat. This was exactly the kind of thing he didn’t get about people. How could you not want to know the truth?

“You don’t care?” he challenged. “You think it doesn’t matter if her happiness is real, or just the product of a messed-up prefrontal cortex?”

Abe cast him a look of genuine confusion. “Sir, I’m not sure what you just said, but…If she feels it, isn’t it real?”

“No,” House said automatically then paused, unsure of where he was going. A second later, he felt Wilson’s hand on his knee—gentle this time. “House,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

And against his every natural impulse, House didn’t. Not because Wilson told him to, but because there was no point. There were people who preferred false happiness to the truth, and he had to accept that. Even if he didn’t understand it.

“So anyway,” Abe continued brightly, “we’ll take this turn up here to my cousin’s land, and you’ll get to see how a real Amish farm runs.” 

House couldn’t even be bothered to mock as the buggy moved onto a tree-lined side road.

Wilson, presumably taking his silence as a window, leaned over and spoke close to his ear. “I don’t know what syndrome you have, but I get that you’re not happy. OK?”

House used his shoulder to nudge Wilson away, then scowled at him. “I was happy, the way we were.”

Wilson’s eyes widened a fraction, and House realized he’d just practically quoted Barbara Streisand. So he backtracked. “OK, maybe _happy_ is a strong word. I was OK. I was good.”

Wilson peered at him in a way that made House want to squirm. “And now you’re…not good?”

“I don’t know,” he said impatiently, feeling like an idiot and hating it.

Wilson bit his lip and began to play with the ring on his left hand. House couldn’t tell if it was conscious or not.

“Pay attention now, boys,” Abe piped up. “Covered bridge coming up. It’s one of the best parts of the tour.”

House craned his neck to see a wooden bridge, painted red, a short distance ahead. And as they got closer, he suddenly felt uneasy, for no reason he could identify.

He looked at Wilson’s profile. “Don’t bail out while we’re under cover of darkness.”

Wilson ignored him and kept looking straight ahead, and House couldn’t blame him.

As they entered the bridge and the sunlight disappeared, House let his fingers brush up against Wilson’s thigh. Just in case.

 

**_—TBC_ **


	4. Chapter 4

“You gonna eat that?” House nodded toward the enormous soft pretzel on Wilson’s paper plate.

They were sitting at a picnic table near the farmhouse, where a litter of aggressively adorable Amish children had been armed with pretzels and lemonade when they’d returned from an in-depth demonstration of cow milking.

“Have at it,” Wilson said sullenly.

House grabbed the plate and plopped it on his own. “Ah, the simple, humble farmers, unleashing their children to squeeze some extra cash from the tourists.”

“Yep,” Wilson looked toward the dirt road leading to the farm. Another carriage was arriving, this one dragged by two horses and big enough to haul a small group of sightseeing suckers.

“The SUV of buggies,” House observed.

“Yep.” Wilson tapped his lemonade cup lightly.

House eyed him. “You planning our annulment?”

Wilson shook his head. “Don’t put this on me, House.” There was no venom, or much of anything, in his voice.

“I’m not. Just making chit-chat.”

Wilson kept his eyes on his lemonade and smiled wryly. “This is all a joke to you. All you’ve done is ridicule, since the moment I asked you to marry me.”

“That’s what I _do,_ ” House pronounced. It was a lame defense, but it was all he had.

Wilson held up a hand. “I’m aware. It’s how you deal with change—pretend it’s meaningless until you can’t anymore.”

House would’ve argued if he had a way. Instead, he put his elbows on the table and leaned in. “I assume you knew that when you cooked up this marriage idea.”

Wilson nodded. “It’s my fault.”

The straight-up admission was unexpected, but House kept his face impassive.

Wilson looked at him from under his lashes. “Less than two years ago, we were friends. Then we were”—he made a complicated gesture that must have been Wilsonian for _fuck buddies_ —“and then I talked you into the civil union. It’s a lot of change for anyone. For you, it’s…” He raised his eyebrows in lieu of words.

 _Yeah,_ House had to agree. _It is._

“OK,” he said tentatively. “So I’ve hit the freak-out stage. Hardly surprising.”

“I guess not,” Wilson conceded.

House had no idea what to make of that response. “So…We’re OK?”

Wilson exhaled a soft laugh. “Uh, no. We’re both—” He stopped short, looking past House. “Ugh, here comes Abe.”

“Gentlemen! You about ready to move on?”

House turned just as their pleasant, God-fearing guide arrived by his side. “I’m still eating my pretzel,” he said petulantly.

Abe chuckled. “OK, then. I’ll just get the buggy ready, and you can meet me by—”

He was cut off by a ring tone. From the cell phone he was now pulling from his pocket, House registered a bit slowly.

“Morning! This is Abe.”

House felt his mouth drop open. “You have an iPhone?”

Abe gave him a “just a sec” gesture, before telling the caller they’d have to talk later and signing off.

“You have an iPhone?” House repeated.

Abe’s posture stiffened. “Well, I have to—to run a business.” He sounded defensive despite the still-friendly tone. “How do you think you booked this tour, sir?”

House honestly hadn’t given it any consideration, since _he_ had done nothing of the sort. “I dunno,” he said dismissively. “I guess I assumed the Intercourse operator patched us through to the phone in your outhouse.”

Abe looked at Wilson, as if beseeching the nice one. “We are allowed to use technology in some instances—when it’s for the greater good.”

“When it’ll help you make a buck,” House supplied.

“House,” Wilson said wearily.

“What? I paid good money to be transported to a place that’s free of the evils of the modern world.”

Abe held up both hands, fingers splayed Wilson-style. “Sometimes we have to use technology to make a living. Most of us aren’t like my cousin. We can’t compete as farmers anymore.”

Wilson made a sympathetic _tsk_ sound. “That’s too bad.”

“Why?” House countered. “Because he gets to sit in a buggy, yapping on his celly, instead of slaving on a farm from pre-dawn till dusk?”

Wilson frowned, then turned his attention to Abe. “So you, like, went to Walmart and bought it?”

“Target. The parking lot at Walmart is too crazy for the horses.”

House just stared, while Wilson uttered a thoughtful _hmm._ “But how do you charge it?”

“We have a diesel generator at the stables for electricity.”

House swung his legs over the bench he was sitting on, and pushed to his feet; he preferred to stand while haranguing. “Don’t you feel just a little hypocritical? Preaching about the simple old ways, while shopping for the best data plan?”

Abe nodded. “I understand your point, sir. Believe me, we’ve struggled with these questions for years now. If our families could make a living working quietly on our farms, we would.”

“But isn’t that what your whole Amish jam is?” House pressed. “Living apart from the rest of the world, taking care of yourselves. Being fashion rebels with your suspenders and questionable facial hair.”

Abe sighed. “Well, we do hold on to the old ways as much as possible.”

“Obviously,” Wilson concurred, looking at House pointedly. “We _are_ being carted around in a horse-drawn buggy.”

“And we’re careful about which changes we allow,” Abe said, picking up steam. “We think hard about it. We pray and ask for guidance. Then we try to pick the pieces of the outside world that will make our lives better, and leave the rest.”

House rolled his eyes. “That’s a great fantasy, but that’s not how change works. You can’t know how anything will turn out. What if we find out the EMF whack jobs were right, and cell phones cause brain cancer?”

Abe gave him an odd look, so he sought a better _what if?_ “OK. How about this? What if this is the change that finally breaks it all?”

Now Wilson was giving him the look, too, but he forged on. “What if, in ten years, when all the Amish kids have moved to Cali to start issuing IPOs, you look back and realize your cell phone set off a chain of events that ruined life as you know it?”

Abe studied him for a few seconds, then looked out toward the fields where his cousin’s cows were grazing. “Well,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to live with it.”

“Exactly,” House muttered, leaning into his cane.

Abe turned to him with a small smile. “But that’s OK,” he assured serenely. “I’m not afraid. I trust.”

House blinked. _Oh. Right._ “You trust that you’re taken care of,” he recalled.

“Yes, sir.”

House stole a side-glance at Wilson, who’d become intent on his lemonade again, then looked back at Abe. “Must be nice,” he said, and he was fairly sure he meant it.

Abe’s smile widened. “It is, sir.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll get the buggy ready.”

*******

House groaned as he flopped onto the bed. It was only early afternoon, but it had already been a long, hard day of Amish, and he was feeling it.

“You should have another soak while I pick up lunch,” Wilson said quietly, as he fished a sweatshirt from the dresser. It had grown cloudy and cooler by the time they’d gotten back, and naturally Wilson was prepared for such an event.

House raised his head from the pillow. “Later. Come over here.”

“I have to get the food before you become hypoglycemic and the whole inn is put at risk.” Wilson pulled the sweatshirt on, emerging with a mop of static-y hair.

House swallowed the witty critique on the tip of his tongue. “Just c’mere. Please.”

Wilson froze, clearly thrown by the politeness. He regarded House warily at first, like the drama queen he was. But after an appropriate display, he padded over to the bed and stretched out—albeit as far from House as possible, looking steadfastly at the ceiling.

House shifted onto his left side to face him. “I’ve decided to pretend I’m Amish.”

When his announcement failed to achieve the impact he’d anticipated, he went on. “I mean, without the God stuff. Or the buggy. Or the jacked up beard.”

“So you’re telling me you’re buying a straw hat?”

“No,” House said testily. What was Wilson’s problem? “I’m gonna try to just…trust.”

Wilson looked at him, but House couldn’t read his expression. “Trust what?”

Leave it to Wilson to ask that. House sighed. “That I’ll get over whatever I need to get over.” He hoped that was good enough.

Wilson looked skyward again, and House tried not to get annoyed. Wilson knew, better than anyone, that this was not his forte—but the bitch was obviously determined to get something more out of him.

House cleared his throat. “Can you pretend you’re Amish, too?”

Wilson made a squinty face at the ceiling. “Meaning?”

“You know. Smile and feed me soft pretzels. Or actually, just the pretzel part. The smiling would be creepy.”

Wilson crossed his arms, which was kind of comical in his current position. “Just so I’m clear. You want me to hang tight while you decide if marriage is your thing? And keep you properly fed, of course.”

“That’s right,” House affirmed. “And you know, it’s not gonna hurt you to practice some patience.” At Wilson’s disbelieving look, he added, “You proposed five minutes after you heard it was legal.”

Wilson pursed his lips, but couldn’t seem to work up a rebuttal.

House narrowed his eyes, sensing a small opening to barrel through. “What is with you and marriage, anyway?”

Wilson exhaled in his long-suffering manner. “God, not this. I—I just like being married. OK?”

“You like _getting_ married,” House corrected. “You’re terrible at actually staying married.”

Even as that last word slipped from his mouth, House was already struck by his own idiocy.

_And there it is._

He almost smiled, in that way that a breakthrough always inspired. It was so obvious, he marveled at how he’d failed to see it clearly before.

Well, it could’ve been all the denial and refusal to take any moment of the past week seriously. Naturally, he’d devoted time to mocking Wilson’s train-wreck marriages, but he hadn’t realized—or at least admitted—that the whole sordid history actually bothered him.

For Wilson, marriage had always been the crucial step in dooming the relationship.

“That’s what this is all about?” Wilson demanded, pushing up to sit. “You think I’m gonna cheat?” He wasn’t even trying to hide the hurt in his eyes.

“No,” House said without hesitation. He didn’t think it was anything as specific as that.

He’d just basically been slowly descending into a hazy sense of dread ever since Wilson proposed. And if he were honest, he couldn’t pin it all on Wilson’s marital record, either. He’d taken this particular descent before, after all.

But that was all too pathetic to say out loud. So he simply repeated, more firmly: “No.”

Wilson stared at him for a few long seconds, but his face gradually relaxed. “So…You’re just afraid it’ll all end somehow, because that’s the way it’s always been?”

House didn’t answer, mainly because that statement made him sound superstitious—and he objected to the word “afraid.” But yeah, it was a fairly accurate assessment, and if he didn’t say anything, Wilson would know what he meant.

Wilson studied him a moment longer before lying down again and folding his hands on his belly. The ensuing silence was so drawn out, House wondered if he should try to say more words—though that hadn’t been helping so far.

Luckily, Wilson broke the impasse with a quiet sigh. “Me, too.”

That was definitely not what House expected to hear. “Huh?”

Wilson closed his eyes, possibly so he’d forget who he was walking to. “I’m—I guess I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

“I know,” House couldn’t resist agreeing. “Spiders, escalators, dolphins, the clown from _Poltergeist_ —”

“The possibility that your liver will fail, or you’ll go off the road on that death trap you ride. Or hey, maybe you’ll do something that lands you in jail for years this time.”

“OK,” House cut him off, but without the usual bite. He could acknowledge that Wilson had a point—silently, in his own head.

“I get it,” Wilson insisted. “I understand being scared of what could happen. But you”—He paused to pinch the bridge of his nose—“You don’t know if you want to be married, because you’re afraid it’ll end. So you’re considering a pre-emptive breakup. Am I understanding correctly?”

It all seemed a little stupid the way Wilson laid it out. But that didn’t make it untrue.

“That’s roughly it,” House allowed.

Wilson shook his head. “That…sounds just like you, actually.”

House didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed at the resigned tone. “I am consistent,” he said mildly.

The corner of Wilson’s mouth twitched, just barely, and House took that as a green light to push a little. “You’re no better than I am, you know. The DSM-V should have included a category for compulsive marrying.”

Wilson closed his eyes again.

“I mean, you meet the criteria for addiction,” House reasoned. “You keep coming back to marriage despite grievous harm to yourself and others. You suffer withdrawal symptoms when marriage is taken away from you—” 

Wilson’s eyes flew open. “OK,” he addressed the ceiling sharply. “Here it is. I like the feeling of being married. Marriage is official. It’s—and you can malign me as much as you want—it’s comforting.”

House opened his mouth, to take Wilson up on his offer, but he realized he didn’t really have the will this time. Instead, he found himself asking an honest question.

“So you wanted all of this because you feel more comfortable being married?”

Wilson looked at him. “I didn’t ask you out of habit.”

House wasn’t so sure—ingrained behavioral patterns, and all that—but he held his tongue. 

“You know,” Wilson said irritably, “you’re making it really hard for me to remember why, but I do want to be married to you, specifically.” He propped himself up on his forearms. “And if our relationship hasn’t imploded after all these years, why are you worried it will now?”

House shrugged a shoulder. He suspected it had something to do with his long history of seeing every good thing he touched turn to shit. But he decided to keep that to himself.

Wilson sighed. “You even said it to Abe. You can never know how anything will end. So my marriages don’t matter, your disaster with Cuddy doesn’t matter. This is different.”

He looked House in the eyes, obviously waiting for a response.

“I’m aware,” House said evenly.

Wilson sighed again, sounding more spent than angry this time, then fell back onto his pillow.

“I’ve always wanted you to be happy, House,” he murmured. “I’ve just never figured out how to get you there.”

House gazed at Wilson’s profile, watching as he rubbed his eyes then let his hand drop to the mattress. He’d never intended for his happiness to become Wilson’s burden; it had just kind of landed on his shoulders through their perfect storm of dysfunction.

“Well,” House said slowly, “that’s not actually your job.”

Wilson looked at him, uncertain. But on that count, House knew he was right. He wasn’t sure where happiness came from—though a fucked-up Amish gene seemed to work—but it was pretty clear you either felt it or you didn’t. No force necessary.

And what a relief, House realized. He didn’t need to pretend he was Amish. He didn’t need to trust that the world was a good place, or people were kind, or that he’d die a happy man. He just needed to stop assuming that everything eventually sucks.

He could do that.

OK, he could try.

House took a deep breath. “So. It’s fair to say the first twenty-four hours of this marriage have been very, very Amish.”

Wilson made a non-committal sound.

“That’s something of an anomaly,” House continued. “If the next twenty-four hours were to improve, that might set my mind in a better direction.”

His proposal was greeted by silence, and House was about to try again when Wilson maneuvered onto his side, subtly moving closer as he did. “You think?”

“The odds are good.” 

Wilson chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Well, check-out is at noon tomorrow. We could stay an extra day instead.”

House frowned. “See, that would be adding more Amish.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but there was a familiar little spark in his demeanor now. “We could do what I originally had planned for today. Y’know, before you ruined everything.”

House gave him the _Yes?_ face.

“A quiet drive through the country in the morning, followed by a Pennsylvania Dutch, cholesterol- and starch-laden lunch. After that, we come back here for an en suite couple’s massage. And after that…I thought we could just stay in and figure something out.”

Wilson smiled in that coy way he had, and House swallowed. “That sounds worth a shot,” he conceded.

Wilson nodded, his smile softening. “OK. Should I go talk to the front desk?”

House nodded in return, but then reached out and began running his fingertips along Wilson’s arm. “In a minute.”

Wilson just looked at him, blinking slowly. Gentle touches were not the norm for them, so he probably didn’t know how to react. House wasn’t even sure why he was doing it; maybe because part of him felt like he should apologize for the past week, but he wasn’t quite sorry. So he was doing this instead.

He closed his eyes, and kept trailing his fingers over the same path. If he were Wilson, he’d probably say it was comforting.

But he wasn’t Wilson, and he didn’t feel the need to name it right now anyway. It was simpler just to breathe and keep going.

 

_—End_

**Author's Note:**

> Intercourse, PA, is real. My friends went to [**this inn**](http://www.inn-spa.com/intercourse-pa-inn-rooms.html) for a 'romantic weekend.' I think House and Wilson should stay in the 'Thomas Suite,' since it's clearly the manliest.


End file.
